


join forces, like carousels and their horses, (forever spinning round)

by killingangels



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Airport AU, Celebrity AU, Fluff, M/M, this is a repost because it had grammar issues, what even r tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:42:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25535302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killingangels/pseuds/killingangels
Summary: Michael’s followed Calum Hood since he was sixteen, sitting on a bed not too different to Michael’s own, playing a battered guitar nearly identical to the one that sat in the corner of Michael’s own room. (The difference was, Calum had two other lanky, grinning Australians join him, and Michael was stuck with his walls for company.)
Relationships: Luke Hemmings/Ashton Irwin, Michael Clifford/Calum Hood
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello... i’m back i’m reposting this bc apparently seven of my commas didn’t have spaces after them and it took me ages because it is quite literally the worst job on earth. i don’t even know if all of the commas are gone. im like 100% sure only one comma is fixed. will i do anything about this? i don’t know. also i decided to put it in two chapters because i felt like it 
> 
> i hope you enjoy, and if you didn’t, well that’s nice

“Follow your dreams,” Michael reads off of the advertisement on the side of the airport entrance. He snorts. Fat lot of good his dreams have done for him. 

His original dream was to become a pilot. And then he’d taken one look at the cost of the training with his mum, and he can remember the look on her face when they both realised that it would never be an option. When she realised she had to disappoint her only son, say no to his only dream. They barely managed to pay rent and have enough left over for food and emergencies, let alone pilot training. 

(He once wrote all of this down, in his English mock exams, and ended up with a two hour long session with the school’s career’s advisor explaining that he should be looking into more reliable careers, such as finance.)

Still. throughout his entire childhood and into his teenage years, planes have fascinated him. And if he couldn’t be on the plane, why not work with the planes?

Mainly because Michael got a D in Physics and a C in Maths. And none of the engineering side of things makes a single bit of sense to him. 

Instead, he works in the airport. Customer management, security, luggage claims, anything he can. He cleans. He smiles at passengers. He gently wakes up those on the floor who might miss their flight. But the only glimpse of a plane is what he gets through the wide windows on the east of the building. He’s worked here for two years, and it still makes him stare in awe every time he sees another plane leave. Which is far too often. 

If he could choose any job to change to, at the moment, he’d say a songwriter. Rian would argue that he’s already a songwriter, and that he doesn’t need it to be professional for him to be one, but Michael’s always found that Rian’s too much of an optimist. He’s no artist. 

Instead, he’s left listening to customer complaints and finding lost baggage. Not exactly the glamorous lifestyle he was dreaming of. Neither is it the sort of lyrics that people relate to. 

At the minute, he’s on cleaning duty. Someone’s always on cleaning duty, and if it’s not Michael then it’s one of the poor new workers who are still excited by the prospect of being in charge of Security. Michael’s kind enough to not force them into cleaning. 

Security has never been his scene, anyway. Too much stress, too many words flung around that aren’t meant. Abuse flung at the workers, (always with spit flying after it, which is unsanitary and fucking gross,) that they have to ignore with a smile and a prayer that they’ll pass through without a rummage through their luggage. 

So, cleaning duty. 

Obviously, it’s not all fun and games. In fact, most of the time he’s on cleaning duty, he wishes he was in Security. Especially in the men’s loos. Michael never goes to the public ones during his shift, preferring to hike back to the private ones for the workers all the way on the other side of the airport, over in Terminal Four, and it’s like, at least a mile away. He goes there anyway, because the men’s loos stink in Terminal Two.   
He feels sorry for the passengers sometimes, having to use them, but they’re the ones creating the mess. None of them have to clean it. 

He’s as far away from the public toilets as he can, somewhere around Caffè Nero, and the constant, mouthwatering aroma of coffee drifts past him approximately every five seconds. One of the baristas salutes at him with a grin, eyeing the mop in his hand. He makes a face back at him. 

Overhead, there’s an announcement for a flight to Rio de Janeiro, that the gate is opening, and there’s a rush of passengers that are desperate to get on their plane first, all shoving each other out of their way despite the fact they’re all getting on the same plane. Michael wishes he was going to Rio de Janeiro. The furthest he’ll be going is the train station, and then his flat. People don’t like stories about trains. They like stories about Rio de Janeiro. 

“Hey,” he whispers, propping his mop against the wall. There’s a woman, curled around her luggage, who looks far too old to be sleeping on the floor, a baby asleep next to her. They’ve only just narrowly managed to avoid being stepped on, and she’s close enough to the gate that it’s entirely possible she’s getting on this plane.

He kneels down next to her as her eyes flutter open. “What?” she mumbles. 

“Ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you, but the gate for Rio de Janeiro has just opened,” he whispers, keeping his voice soft. He knows firsthand how alarming it can be, waking up in an airport at the last second before a flight. 

Before he’s even finished talking, she's struggling to her feet. On the floor, the baby starts to cry, and the woman looks stressed. Her hair is straggling around her face and there are dark, purple imprints beneath her eyes. There’s bits and pieces clearly out of her hand luggage that she’s trying to fit in her bag, and they’re beginning to gather strange stares from the other passengers. 

“Can you hold her, please?” the woman is asking, dumping the baby in Michael’s arms. He tries to rock her, gently, his lanyard dangling over her face. She squeals in delight, chubby hands reaching for it, and the sight is so soft that he can’t help the smile that spreads across his face as she grabs on to one of his fingers, gripping over his tattoo and smiling. 

“I take it that’s your plane, ma’am?” he says, carefully giving the baby back to her. He picks up her luggage and she nods before following him down the corridor. “The gate’s not far this way.”

He’s lying. The gate is so far down the corridor that it feels like an age before they reach it, but a little white lie wouldn't hurt. 

“Thank you,” the woman says, fervently when they reach the queue. She’s got her boarding pass and passport, and Michael leaves her with her luggage. “It’s no problem, ma’am,” he tells her. Her baby reaches for him again, and he lets her grip his finger in her tiny ones for a few seconds before the line moves forward, and he turns to leave with a wave. 

The terminal is somehow more crammed, when he returns, and he busies himself with cleaning up the messes around Boots before moving on to the loos with a sigh. He doesn’t get paid enough for this. 

Today, they’re particularly disgusting. “Fuck,” he mutters to himself, shoving an out of use sign in front of the door. They can damn well find another. 

He’s sweating, by the time he’s finished, even though he knows it’s in vain because the minute he leaves, they’ll become disgusting again. He can catch brief glimpses of conversations as they pass the toilets, and allows himself a minute to compose himself and sort his hair out before reopening them. 

Stomping out of the loos, he’s stopped by another, seemingly endless horde of passengers, wheeling luggage and elbowing each other out of the way. He huffs dramatically. No one notices, because of course they don’t. He wouldn’t notice a cleaning guy either if he was on his way to a holiday. Not even if their hair is as good as his. 

He waits for them to pass, because believe it or not he does have manners, and wanders across to M&S. The guy behind the till is new, (Michael thinks his name is like, John, or something) and doesn’t wave at him. 

He drags his cart over to the wall, propping up the mop and keeping one hand on it in case one of his superiors decides to wander through to check on him. He leans against the wall and closes his eyes. He’s been working since six, and he wouldn’t get off for another seven hours at the very least. 

Across from him, there’s a guy resting his head on his suitcase, eyes shut, knees tucked up to his chest. Michael groans as another flight to LA is announced. His chest tightens as he thinks about the people boarding; the rich, the famous, those struggling to make it and those living their dreams. He thinks about boarding. 

It’s a stupid idea. He doesn’t have enough money, or creativity, the guts, or the talent, or whatever they’re looking for in LA. Across from him, the guy sleeping shifts slightly, face pressing into his suitcase. 

He crosses the aisle in a few quick strides, weaving his way through the seating- complete with knobbly knees and elbows sticking out from people choosing to sleep- to where the guy is curled up, against a pillar. 

He drops to his knees, shaking the guy’s shoulder gently (and panicking when it causes his head to slip off the suitcase, managing to catch him and prop him up, slightly clumsily, just in time). He smiles at him as his eyes flutter open, one hand coming up to rub sleepily at his eyes. 

And- that’s Calum Hood. Rockstar. Model. Performer. Inspiration for the pages of scrawled lyrics that Michael keeps tucked in a drawer. Part of the band that saved Michael’s pathetic little life. 

Michael’s followed Calum Hood since he was sixteen, sitting on a bed not too different to Michael’s own, playing a battered guitar nearly identical to the one that sat in the corner of Michael’s own room. (The difference was, Calum had two other lanky, grinning Australians join him, and Michael was stuck with his walls for company.) 

He’s followed him through his first performances on a stage he hadn’t grown into, through intrusive interviews and a whole album full of heartbreaking ballads and angsty punk anthems. He’s seen a whole host of hair colours, and shifted his own hair colour every time he sees a change. 

And now he’s sitting in front of him, with the same curly hair that Michael saw on Instagram yesterday. His skin looks just as soft as it did in the photos. Michael immediately feels like a creep. 

“Excuse me, sir,” he says. Polite. He smiles again, softly. Calum looks confused. “Are you on the 12:26 flight to LA?” 

“Uh,” Calum Hood says to him. He furrows his eyebrows. “I’m going to LA. It was delayed though, so I think it’s at like, two?” And Calum’s got that twang in his voice that reminds Michael of home, that he’s only ever heard on Instagram. 

“Sorry,” Michael says. “You wouldn’t believe how many people almost miss their flights by choosing to just sit down for a while.” 

He feels slightly dumb. Of course Calum Hood wouldn’t be rushed onto a plane with everyone else. He’s famous, for God’s sake. He’s surprised he’s not in the luxury lounge, or getting a private plane or something. No, instead, Calum Hood has been sleeping on his suitcase like anyone else, a black hoodie stretched over his face and black sunglasses poking out of his pocket. Michael likes this guy. 

But Calum’s shaking his head, shifting further upright against the pillar, and yawning behind his hand. “Don’t worry about it.” He stares at Michael’s face for a few seconds. Michael tries not to blush. “I’m Calum. Are you free to get coffee?” 

“Calum, Calum Hood?” Michael says. He tries to not come across as star struck, but it’s hard. “Nice to meet you.” 

Calum’s lips twitch as though he can see the recognition in Michael’s eyes. “Coffee?” 

At Michael’s confused stare, he rushes to clarify himself. “I, uh. I’ll just fall asleep again if I stay here. And, I don’t particularly want to be alone. So, coffee? If you can, obviously. Because this is your job, and everything.”

“Sure I can, sir,” Michael hurries to say, holding out a hand to help Calum up. “I’m Michael. Caffè Nero alright for you? I can get it you for free.” 

“God, I’m such a slut for free shit,” Calum says dreamily, accepting Michael’s helping hand and blinking to wake himself up. Michael snorts. 

“Aren’t we all, mate,” he mutters under his breath, and leads the way to Nero. 

“Will my luggage be alright, over there?” Calum asks, suddenly nervous. Michael shrugs. 

“Considering that everyone around you was asleep, and it’s a bright, obvious red, then I don’t think you’ll be losing anything, sir,” he tells him, dryly. “Look, you can see it from here.” he says, pointing.

As Michael had expected, no one had moved since they had gotten up. They’re in an airport. No one cares. Not even when it’s Calum Hood. 

“We’ll get your coffee to go, if that makes you feel better,” he continues, grinning when Calum makes a shocked face. “If you lose it, I’ll personally pay for all the damage, sir.” 

“Nah, it’s fine,” Calum says, looking decidedly like it’s not fine at all. 

Michael sighs. “Do you want me to go get it, sir? The baristas can put it with their belongings. The room is locked.” 

“Yes, please.” 

“Stay here, then, please. Don’t move, pardon,” he says, and jogs back over to the suitcase. It’s pretty heavy, so he turns it around until he can wheel it, and waits for the last few passengers to wander past before he drags it back over to Calum. 

“Here,” he says, grabbing Calum by the hand and grinning at his relieved sigh. 

“Thank you, Michael,” Calum says, giving the suitcase a pat, slightly randomly. 

“Right this way, then, sir,” Michael prompts, when Calum Hood stays put, staring absently at something on his face. He wonders if he’s got like, shit, on his face from his earlier stint of bathroom cleaning. Or like, toothpaste from this morning and just no one’s told him. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, eloquently. He blinks a few times, and licks his lips. Michael definitely isn’t watching his tongue sweep over his bottom lip. 

“You don’t have to call me sir, you know,” Calum says, suddenly, and then looks down at his feet. He’s wearing black vans, the soles worn in. They’re scuffed at the front. He wonders how long Calum has had them. 

“It’s, uh. Customary,” Michael says, half in a daze. Calum Hood wants to be on a first name basis with him? “But I can do that. Calum.” 

The grin that Michael gets in return is so bright it lights up Calum’s entire face, eyes crinkling, and Michael has to turn away before he does something dumb, like kiss the smile off his face, or something. 

He turns to lead Calum towards the back room, instead, weaving through a few of the tables. Calum keeps his head down. The barista nods at him as he passes. 

“Hey, Rian,” he asks, doing his best I-know-what-I’m-doing-voice. “Unlock the back for us, will you?” 

Luckily for Michael, Rian still owes him from the time he saved him from falling into the loos in Terminal One, so he does as he asks without argument and with a nod and a raised eyebrow towards Calum. Michael just shrugs. He knows he looks smug. 

“Thank you,” Calum says. He’s smiling this small, relieved smile at Michael, and it tugs at Michael’s heart.

The moment’s ruined by Calum’s stomach rumbling, and he looks down at it in surprise.

“We’ll get you some food,” Michael says, gesturing to the cold food display behind him. “Unless you’d prefer a proper meal? Anything in particular?” 

“No, this is fine,” Calum says. He’s distracted, Michael can tell; eyes flickering from one end of the terminal to the other; sweeping across faces and stores and rows upon rows of seats, searching. 

Michael decides to leave him be. He turns his attention to the drinks menu instead, ordering a mocha and a slice of cake that he thinks has raspberries in, and Rian takes his order with a nod towards Calum. 

“Your friends?” Michael asks. Calum gives a tiny nod, pulls his hood down, and relaxes slightly. “They over there?” 

“Yeah,” Calum tells him, and doesn’t elaborate. 

“You want them to come round? I can leave, if you’d like. Do my job, and all.” 

“No,” Calum says, quickly. “Don’t leave.” 

“Okay,” Michael says. “We have time.” 

In the end, Calum orders a cappuccino and some sort of tiny pizza flatbread, and they find a table close to the front of the store. The rest of Calum’s band don’t come over, and Calum doesn’t invite them. He spies a few texts between them, and then decides to stop being nosy. 

They eat mostly in silence, with Michael ignoring the glances from the counter that Rian shoots him, and the ones that Niall from Boots is sending him, and instead he studies Calum’s face from behind his mug. 

“You look like you’re about, twelve seconds from nodding off,” Michael notes. Calum blushes, and Michael immediately panics. “Not that, you know. You look fine. Just, tired.” 

“Michael,” Calum says. “It’s fine. You did find me sleeping on my suitcase, anyway.” 

“What time did you say your flight was?” Michael asks. He kind of doesn’t want to know how little time he has before Calum inevitably flies to LA and forgets about him. 

“Like, half one? I think? Ash’ll probably text me ten minutes before the gate opens anyway. He’s a stickler for time, that one.” 

Michael nods like he knows what Ashton Irwin acts like in an airport. “What’re you doing over there?” 

Calum shrugs. “Writing, mostly. New album, I think. Having a little break. We’re back and forth between London and LA a lot. I think we’re coming back in like, a month?” 

His voice is soft, and breaks on a yawn half way through his sentence. It makes him sound distinctly more Australian, and Michael wonders if Calum can hear his own accent, even though Michael knows that it’s hidden from his work in London. 

“What’s it like?” he finds himself asking, because if he can’t experience the career he wanted, he can at least hear about it. He’ll allow himself that much. 

Calum frowns, thinking. He chews the inside of his mouth. Michael finds it ridiculously cute. 

“Draining,” he says, finally. He doesn’t meet Michael’s eyes, instead focusing on the design in his mug. “Everyone wants a part of you but no one sticks around.” 

“I’m sorry,” Michael says. He must sound pitying, because Calum whips his head up. 

“No,” he says. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s amazing. Travelling, that’s amazing. With my best mates. Writing music that people can hear and relate to. That’s good. It’s just that, nothing’s really permanent. We’re all over the place. I’ve probably seen the inside of an airport more than I’ve seen my own place.” 

Michael hums in vague agreement. He wishes he could agree properly. Have something to talk about in return instead of his shitty job and shittier income. 

“What about you?” Calum asks. He takes a sip of his drink, which is clearly still too hot, and curses under his breath. 

Michael laughs. It’s not a very happy laugh. 

“I work in a fucking airport, mate,” he says. The words taste stale and bitter in his mouth. “I just cleaned the toilets. I wanted to be a pilot. Then, I wanted to write. Look at me now.” 

Calum swallows. It’s loud enough to hear over the low level chatter around him. “Michael, I’m sorry,” he starts, and then looks down at his plate. 

Michael’s really fucked up this time. 

He shakes his head. “I’m working on it,” he says. 

Calum hesitates for a moment. “Want some?” he asks, jerking his head towards his sourdough flatbread pizza thing. It smells good, really good, and Michael’s pretty sure that he doesn’t have money for dinner, but he still shakes his head. 

“You sure?” Calum asks. “We’ll trade,” he says. 

Michael can feel the sides of his mouth twitch up and he shrugs. “Sure,” he says. Calum slides it across to him. The ceramic scrapes against wood. 

“This is so good,” he says a moment later, mouth full of pesto. Calum’s eyes crinkle at the corners. Michael’s kind of proud that he can make Calum Hood smile. 

“I’m glad,” Calum says, and his voice is soft and slightly breathy, his eyes intense. Michael swallows. 

“Why? You didn’t make it,” he says, trying to dispel some of the awkwardness surrounding them. Or maybe it’s not awkward. Maybe it’s just too much. 

Calum shrugs. “You seem like the sort of person who deserves to be happy,” he says, simply. 

Michael can feel the blush spreading over his cheeks, down his neck, and blushes further when he realises Calum can actually see him. “Thanks?” he says, but his voice is small and weak. 

Calum shakes his head. “Where’re you from?” he asks. It’s clear that he wants to change the subject, but Michael appreciates the break. 

He finishes swallowing the flatbread, taking a sip of his drink to try and wash away the lump in his throat. “Sydney,” he replies. 

Calum’s head jerks up. “No way.” 

Michael nods. Calum’s eyes widen further. “Me too.” 

“Yeah,” Michael says, softly. “I know.” 

At his words, Calum drops his head, a blush spreading over the apples of his cheeks. “Uh, yeah,” he says. “Probably should’ve guessed.” 

“No,” Michael blurts. “It’s okay, you know? Like. I don’t sound Australian.” 

“Oh,” Calum says, fumbling with his phone on the table. “Uhm. I was wondering if you wanted to keep in contact?” 

At Michael’s blank stare, he carries on. “As in. Like. Can I give you my number?” 

“What,” Michael says. 

“Oh,” Calum says, face beginning to fall. “I read this whole thing wrong, didn’t I?”

“No,” Michael hastens to say. “I mean. Yes. I’d like that.” To emphasise his point, he shoves his phone across the table at Calum, unlocking it quickly. 

Calum looks relieved, and passes his phone over with a new contact page already open. Michael hesitates for a moment, and then saves himself as ‘Michael (airplanes)’ in case Calum forgets about him. He even takes a sneaky contact photo for it, crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out for a second whilst Calum is still preoccupied with typing his name in. 

A text comes through from ‘Ashton work UK,’ with the little smirky emoji next to his name, and Michael sees the words “come,” and “Luke,” before he averts his eyes. He doesn’t want to be a nosy little creep. 

He thrusts the phone back to Calum instead, who groans at what Michael assumes is the text and not Michael’s contact page. 

“Ten minutes,” Calum says, stuffing his phone back into his pocket. 

“Oh,” is the only thing that Michael can say. He knows he sounds pathetic, and it’s only confirmed by the vaguely dejected look on Calum's face. 

“I’ll text you,” Calum promises. “As soon as I land.” 

His throat is dry. The warmth of the adrenaline from talking to Calum is wearing off, and he’s beginning to get goose pimples beneath his shirt. The thought of walking back to the train station later makes him want to cry. 

Calum lingers a moment, bottom lip pulled between his teeth, what could he worry in his eyes. “We’re coming back in like, a month or so,” he says. Michael jerks his head up. 

“Would you care to see me? In a couple of weeks? We’ve got a show here, just a one off, and then we’re staying for a few days after. You can show me around, or something?” And Calum sounds so stupidly hopeful for more time with Michael, of all people, when he could be out talking to Alex Gaskarth or partying like a stupid celebrity that it makes Michael smile despite himself. 

“I’ll see you,” Michael says. “Though I’ll be at work.” 

It’d be comical, if it wasn’t so upsetting, the way Calum’s face falls. “I’ll work something out,” he promises. 

“I’ll just follow you around here instead, if I have to,” Calum says, and if Michael wasn’t so sleep deprived, he might have believed that his voice wobbled slightly. 

“Go on,” Michael says, standing from his own chair. He walks back over to where his mop bucket and cleaning trolley is, grimaces at the huge clock, and wheels it to where Rian is standing with Calum’s suitcase next to him. 

“Off you go, then,” Michael says to Calum. “It’ll be opening soon, and I gotta get over to Security.” 

Calum swallows, throws him a smile, and scans the crowd, presumably for his bandmates. 

“Thanks for the food, Ri,” Michael says. Rian raises an eyebrow like he can tell the direction that Michael’s thoughts have gone. Calum grips his suitcase in one hand, and raises the other in farewell. “See you, Calum.” 

And then Calum’s walking off, dragging his hood back up and his glasses back on, disappearing into the crowds of people, joined by two curly heads hidden by similar black hoods, halfway before Michael loses sight of him. 

“Mike,” Rian says. 

“What,” Michael snaps. Rian’s face softens. 

“Come here,” he says, yanking Michael into a hug. His mop clatters to the floor. 

“Stop it,” Michael says, wriggling half heartedly. “You’re not my real dad.” Rian clings to him tighter. 

“How is he?” Rian asks him. 

“Are you going to make fun of me if I tell you?” 

“No,” Rian says, immediately, and then frowns. “Maybe. But tell me anyway.” 

“He’s like a dream. But all of my dreams so far have just fallen apart.” 

“Don’t say that,” Rian says, hopeful and desperate, arms wrapped so tightly around his body that Michael fears for his organs. 

“It’s true though.” 

—

Michael walks home in the rain. 

He spent the usual twenty minutes walking to the train station, before realising that his train had stopped running for the night due to ‘unforeseen weather conditions’, and he could either pay nearly one hundred quid in taxi fares, (and as a result, not eat for the next week,) or walk home. 

Briefly, he considers calling Rian to come and pick him up, but Rian has a habit of never answering his phone, and so he slides down the station wall and puts his cold head in his colder hands, until some vaguely irritated cleaner nudges his shoulder and asks him to move out of the way so she could mop the floor. 

The way home takes ages, Michael knows, but the last time he had to walk the whole way home was back in August and it was still light. This time, rain pounds the pavement and grey skies darken to black the further he looks. 

And so he walks. 

He’s wearing his longest coat, the hood up, hands stuffed in his pockets, but the rain still manages to lash at his face and dampen his socks.

At one point, the tiny stretch of pavement thins out into nothing, and he’s forced to edge along in the corner of the cycle path, freezing his hand to keep his phone torch on and behind him in a makeshift warning to cyclists, and then clambering over the motorway wall to walk on the grassy bank. 

His stomach rumbles sadly when he gets off of the motorway, and he pats it gently, thinks of what meals he can cobble together without effort. There are tears prickling the corners of his eyes, but he knows it’ll be twice as bad if he cries. 

So instead, he carries on walking. He walks, and walks, and walks, until his legs are aching and his eyes are blurring and his stomach is rumbling louder, and he wants nothing more than his beat up laptop and the pile of blankets next to his bed. And then he carries on walking, only stopping after he’s taken the stairs to his apartment and has locked the door. 

Still, he refuses to cry. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, staring at his fridge, at the few random bits he’s got left. He wishes he had taken up Rian’s offer. He needs to go shopping. 

Still. It’s better than nothing, so he peels off the rest of his wet clothes, shivering until he’s layered up in every soft garment he owns, pressing his face into the arm of the sofa and willing away the tears. 

His phone buzzes against the floor where it’s wrapped up in his sodden work trousers, that he’ll definitely have to wash again before tomorrow, and he frowns into the crease of the sofa. The only people who would text him are Rian, or like, his mum, and it’s seven in the morning in Sydney. 

(He pushes away any sort of hope that it’s Calum.) 

Either way, he balances on his stomach to grab his phone, doing his best to not shake the blanket over his shoulders, and shakes his trousers haphazardly until his phone clatters onto the floor. 

There is a text from Calum, but it’s timed from back when they were in Nero, and there’s been nothing since. 

Calum: Miss you already. :-) 

It’s so simple, yet the reminder that earlier was real and actually happened makes him smile, makes his rain sodden clothing and lack of food seem manageable, and unimportant. 

He ignores the newest text, (which is from his phone service provider, explaining that they’re raising his bill per month, and makes his stomach squirm uncomfortably) and rereads Calum’s text a frankly creepy amount of times before he replies. 

Michael: I’d say I miss you too, but you put noses on your smileys, so. 

Michael: Kidding. Course I do. 

—-

The next one comes on his way to work. 

Calum: I’m gonna ignore what you just said 

Calum: landed :-) 

He smiles at his home screen and grabs at the nearest stable object when the train bumps alarmingly. It turns out to be a headrest, and the woman occupying it turns to him with a glare. 

He times in to his shift, raises a hand to Pete, who’s got his bag in one hand and rips his lanyard off with the other, and wanders across to where Niall and Rian are talking. 

“‘Lo,” Michael says. Niall looks him up and down.

“Rian tells me you’re hung up over this Calum fella,” he says, without preamble. Michael blinks at him. 

“You told him that?” he asks Rian, who doesn’t even have the presence of mind to look apologetic. 

“Yeah,” Rian says, and narrows his eyes at Michael’s scoff. “Cmon. You practically had hearts in your eyes when you were chatting.” 

“So what if I did?” Michael asks, half crossly. 

“He’s famous,” Niall says slowly. “You might not see him again.”

“He’s coming back here in a month,” Michael says. 

“Oh,” Rian says, looking surprised. “Well. That’s good then, right?” 

“Yeah,” Michael says reluctantly. “We’ve been texting,” he adds, because he doesn’t hate himself enough. 

Niall waggles his eyebrows. Michael thinks about punching him in the shoulder, but Jack strides out of Security, looking stressed, before he can. Michael groans, looks at Rian helplessly. 

“Off you go, then,” Rian says, all business like, patting Michael on the shoulder. 

“See you at lunch, Mike,” Niall says, hopefully, and waves as Michael turns to slump across to Security. 

It’s times like this that make him wish things were different. That he doesn’t have to go sit behind a desk, pray that no one has a fucking bomb in their suitcase, and hope that he won’t be slapped around the face for asking to check luggage. 

Michael’s going to be a religious man by the time he retires, he swears. 

He checks his phone in a rare moment when the queues start to die down, and he  
can’t stop the smile sneaking over his face. 

Calum: Morning 

Calum: It is morning for you right 

Me: Isn’t it fucking three in the morning

Michael hesitates after his reply, and shoots off another text. 

Me: How’s LA? 

The response is almost instantaneous, as though Calum had been waiting for him, (or maybe he just couldn’t sleep, Michael’s brain provides) and it makes Michael smile like an idiot. 

Calum: My brain says it’s eleven 

The next text takes a moment to come through, but it makes Michael’s heart flip in his chest. Christ. Calum might not even want to see him again, and here Michael is, pining like a teenager. 

Calum: Too hot. Can’t sleep. Distract me? 

Michael has to leave him on read for a couple of minutes as a group of passengers approach, and he gestures for them to remove their electricals and liquids from their luggage. 

None of the cases end up showing anything suspicious besides the last case, and Michael groans under his breath as he asks to take a look. The woman gives him a dirty look, rolls her eyes but nods regardless. 

It turns out to be a fucking tin of coffee, out of everything. Michael forces a smile. “Sorry about that,” he says. The woman purses her lips, zips her case again. 

“Thank you,” he tells her. She mutters under her breath, glares at him. Michael doesn’t really care. 

Me: Sorry. Working security today.

Me: Had to check for suspicious items, turned out to be some fucking coffee 

Calum: Ugh. Sounds awful 

Calum: I couldn’t do it 

Me: Would've thought i had cancelled her holiday by the look on her face

Calum: Customer service man 

Calum: Absolute hell 

Michael agrees, but has to leave Calum on read as well as he slips his phone under the desk to avoid the glare being levelled at him by both Lewis and Steph. 

—

They text a lot during the week, even with the eight hour time difference, Michael’s long hours and Calum’s sporadic writing schedule. 

Michael finds out that Calum’s favourite colour is blue, that he loves cheese but hates cheese flavoured foods, that he half regrets dropping out of school, and is considering going back, and that his favourite food is his mum’s stew and Rewena bread. 

And Calum texts him at every given opportunity. 

They FaceTime once, after Michael’s shift and when Calum was having a slow day, when Michael actually remembered to buy groceries, and he sat on his sofa as the sky darkened feeling not so lonely. 

Calum has a way of making his presence known, even when they’re thousands of miles apart. Michael finds himself smiling more, feeling less bothered whilst an angry customer rants at him, losing himself in each of their conversations. 

It’s nice. And his friends have started to notice. 

“Don’t you mind, that he’s so far away?” Rian asks him once during their lunch break. “Or that he’s famous?” 

“No,” Michael says, honestly. “I think it’d be worse, if he was around all the time.” He pauses, tries to string the sentences together in his mind. “I don’t care that he’s famous, either. He’s not condescending. He’s just another bloke.” 

“I’m happy for you,” Rian says. He pats Michael’s arm. “I can give you a lift home tonight, if you need one. Saw that the trains are supposed to be delayed.”

“Please,” Michael says, gratefully. He’s so fucking thankful for his friends. 

Michael finds out that Calum is flying back to London on the Monday after next, and his heart leaps into his throat when he suggests they spend the day together. 

Calum: I know you said you’d be working, but i’d love to come see you 

Calum: Obviously you don’t have to 

Calum: And would you maybe like to come to the show? 

Calum: Its fine if you don’t. Obviously. But i’d love it if you did 

Michael’s hands are shaking. 

Me: Are you fucking kidding 

Me: I’d love it 

He doesn’t mention work to Calum. Instead, he spends an extortionate amount of hours working up the courage to go and ask his boss for the day off, and talks Rian’s ear off about it every time he goes anywhere near Caffé Nero. 

(“I can't do it,” Michael says. Rian pats his arm consolingly. 

“You can. You’ve got an excuse and everything. He won’t fire you. I don’t think he can.” 

“Come with me?”

Rian sighs, long suffering yet supportive. “Yeah.”) 

Michael does it, in the end, three days later with Rian holding his hand behind him. He blames it on a family funeral, which isn’t a complete lie. His great great aunt Judith did pass away, even if it was two years ago. His boss doesn’t even care, just tells him it’ll be paid at half of his usual wage, which Michael was expecting, but it still hurts like a blow to the chest. 

Me: See you monday


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here is the end..... stream the key to life on earth by declan mckenna

Calum lands at exactly 9:26am. Michael knows this, because he’s been staring at the Arrivals board for the past twenty minutes. 

He’s in Terminal 5, Rian at his side, praying that no one will recognise him, with one hand gripping his phone and the other stuck in his pocket. He takes it out to wipe his sweaty hand on his jeans. 

“I’m scared,” Michael says, for the millionth time. Rian sighs. 

“It’ll be fine,” Rian says, also for the millionth time. Michael loves his best friend, really. “You’re going to go on this kind of date, and then you’re going to woo him-“ 

“No one says woo anymore, this is the fucking twenty first century and also this isn’t even a date-“ 

“And fall in love, and live happily ever after,” Rian finishes, completely unaware of the minor breakdown that Michael has just started to have. 

“Fuck,” Michael says. Rian ignores him. 

“Look, isn’t that him?” Rian says, and points over dramatically towards where Michael can vaguely see a blond, curly head poking out of a massive black jacket, black glasses over his eyes. Luke, then. 

“Rian,” Michael says desperately. “I can't do this.” 

Over by the disabled toilets, Calum laughs at  
something that Luke just said to him. Michael kind of wants to cry, and the feeling intensifies when Calum catches sight of Michael and waves with both arms. 

“He’s waving at me,” Michael says, panicked. “What the fuck do I do?” 

“Wave back, maybe?” 

Michael does. Calum’s smile gets wider, and he tips his head back in laughter, yanking his hood back up afterwards. Michael wants to propose. 

“Michael!” Calum exclaims when he gets close enough. Michael tries to ignore his heart beating out of his chest. “This is Luke,” he says. Luke raises a hand in a greeting so awkward that would be funny if that wasn’t Luke fucking Hemmings. 

“Hi,” Michael says. Luke gapes at him, and takes his glasses off. 

“You really do have an accent,” Luke tells him. Michael blinks. 

“Cheers?” he says. It comes out like a question. Michael can see Calum, standing behind Luke, laughing so hard Michael’s afraid he might choke. 

Someone taps Michael on the shoulder and he spins, suddenly full of fear that it’s his boss. (It’s not. It’s Ashton Irwin.) 

“Hey,” Ashton Irwin says to him. “Thanks for waking Cal up last time.” 

“Uhm.” Michael says intelligently. “No problem.” 

Luke claps him on the arm like they’re old friends, and it makes Michael almost jump out of his skin. “Can we get going?” he asks. “We don’t have a fucking clue where we’re going.” 

“I know where we’re going,” Ashton mutters. Luke ignores him. 

“Come on,” Luke says loudly, throwing a glance behind him and holding up a hand at a young girl, who nods and walks away. Michael notices that Rian’s hands are gone from his wrists, and panics until he sees him with Niall, who apparently came to spy on him. He sticks his tongue out at them. 

“Right-o,” Calum says, in the worst English accent Michael has ever heard, after waving away a group of teenagers with t-shirt’s of his face. 

“What the fuck?” Michael demands. “I won’t take you anywhere if you talk like that.” 

Calum grins at him. “You would,” he says. 

He’s right, so Michael just shrugs. He’s a weak man. 

They take a taxi from outside of the airport, even though it makes Michael’s pulse spike to an unhealthy level when he remembers that he’s being paid at half of his usual wage, and Ashton reels off the name of some hotel that Michael’s never heard of despite it being a twenty minute walk away from his flat. 

His knee keeps brushing against Calum’s, and it’s. Well, it’s nice. Calum’s leg is warm, and his eyes are soft in the daylight, and his smile makes Michael’s stomach do several jumps when they make eye contact. Michael’s definitely not slightly upset when they clamber out, and Calum’s leg moves away from his own. He’s not missing the warmth. 

Michael tries to offer the driver his own money, but Luke loops his arm through Michael’s own and drags through the entrance. 

“How far away is M&M world?” Luke asks. Michael gapes at him. 

“M&M world?” he repeats. Luke nods. 

“Uh. Quite a while, I think,” he says, and shrugs. “I could probably map out the tube journey, if you’d like.” 

“Wait, really?” Luke says, shoving the button for the elevator. 

“I mean. I didn’t even know there was an M&M world here, but yeah, probably.” Michael says. Luke looks at him like he hung the moon. 

“Finally,” Luke mutters. He stabs the button for the fifth floor, and drags Michael in. 

(For all of his dragging around, Michael likes Luke.) 

“You know,” Michael starts, conversationally. “It’s kind of like you’re kidnapping me.” 

Luke levels a stare at him. “Didn’t you know?” he says, shrewdly. “We are. Come on.” 

The lift doors open, almost on command, and Luke leads him down the corridors and into his hotel room. 

It’s a while before Calum and Ashton join them, and Luke flops on the bed next to Michael. “Can you write the route down?” he asks, politely handing Michael a pen that he found somewhere. “They won’t say no if you’ve planned it.” 

—

Calum and Ashton, however, do say no. 

Calum stares at the napkin that the directions are written on with an almost horrified expression on his face. “No,” he says firmly. “Absolutely not.” 

Luke pouts. Michael can see Ashton’s resolve start to slowly weaken. 

“We are not going to fucking, M&M world,” Calum says, pointing a finger at Ashton accusingly. “Back me up.” 

Ashton shrugs. Luke turns to stare at him, puppy dog eyes and his sad pout. 

“I am not going to M&M world,” Calum says resolutely. “‘Michael, come with me.” 

“Well,” Ashton says, slowly. “Maybe it’ll be fun.” 

“Fun?” Michael says. “How old are you, six?” 

Calum points a finger at Michael. “Thank you,” he says. “Finally, someone with a fucking brain cell.” 

“That’s sorted then,” Ashton says hurriedly. “Me and Luke will go to M&M world. You two can go wherever.” 

“Come on then,” Luke says, almost jumping off of the bed. It catapults Michael up slightly, and he groans in Luke’s general direction. 

“Don’t treat our guest like that,” Ashton says, waiting for Luke to leave. “Bye Calum, Michael.” 

“Thank god they’re gone,” Calum says. He smiles up at Michael from where he’s laying; long limbs splayed across the bed, curls almost touching Michael’s chin. Michael smiles back at him dumbly. 

“Where d’ya wanna go?” Michael asks, quietly. If he speaks any louder, he fears it will break the illusion of whatever is happening right now. 

Calum’s eyes fall closed. “Anywhere,” he says, just as quietly. “Anywhere with you.” 

—

They end up nowhere in particular, on a street that Michael has walked down countless times but never taken the time to enjoy. 

They hold hands as they walk, after Michael yanked Calum away from the road edge, and out of the way of a lorry that was careening down the one way streets, and neither of them have let go since. 

It’s nice. Calum’s hand is soft, despite the fact he literally plays bass for a living, and his fingertips tap against Michael’s wrist. 

Calum ends up wandering into a record shop, the one with the instruments in the back, and they spend at least an hour fucking around with the pianos and guitars. 

“Nerd,” Michael thinks to himself, but it’s fond.

“I didn’t know you played,” Calum tells him, flattening a hand against the frets of the acoustic he’s holding. Michael looks down at his own hands, suddenly strangely self conscious. 

He shrugs, instead. “Yeah,” he says, simply. Calum’s eyes are strangely intense on the side of his face. 

“Come on,” he says instead, gently replacing his guitar. “I wanna see if I can find your album.” 

(“I can't believe you have an entire album,” Michael ends up saying longingly later on, as they leave. Michael’s got Calum’s album tucked under one arm, which he insisted on paying for. “Gotta get you an income somehow,” he’d said.)

Calum just shrugs. “I gotta share them with Luke and Ash,” he says. “But it’s the coolest thing I’ve ever done, for sure.” 

There’s a vaguely wistful expression on his face, but it disappears almost as quickly as it came. 

“I’m hungry,” Calum tells him moments later, looping his arm through Michael’s free one and tugging him down the pavement. 

“Here?” Michael suggests after a moment of trying to get their footsteps to move in synchrony. Calum looks up at the aggressively hipster, glowing sign above the doorway, and turns to Michael with something akin to disgust written across his face. 

“The Trew Era Cafe?” Calum asks him, disbelief colouring his voice as he peers at the menu. “What do you think I am, a rabbit?” 

Michael shrugs. “Exactly the sort of food you’re forced to eat.”

Calum looks astounded. “Yeah, the sort of food I’m forced to eat, not the sort of shit I eat willingly,” he declares. He looks around at the nearest buildings, squinting slightly, before deciding to give up and levels a stare at Michael. 

“So demanding,” Michael mutters to himself, loud enough that Calum can hear him, and refuses to look at the smile on Calum’s face. 

“KFC,” Calum says, after a moment of thought. “Where’s the nearest KFC?” 

“Do I look like a SatNav to you?” Michael asks. 

“You live here,” Calum tells him. 

“Do I,” Michael says, as dryly as he can. “I hadn’t noticed.” 

Calum elbows him. “Please,” he says, whinily. “I’ll pay and everything.” 

“A gentleman,” Michael says, but leads the way to the nearest KFC anyway. He’s totally weak for Calum. 

They find a bench in the park around the corner, sit a little too close and tuck their legs beneath the bench, and Michael pretends to watch a man in the corner attempt to paraglide across the grass instead of Calum’s soft smile. (It’s not windy enough, but whatever. Michael’s not going to be the one to tell him.) 

Michael thinks he could probably write thousands of lyrics about Calum, if not this very moment. Even with Calum shovelling chips into his mouth like his life depends on it, and the slight dampness or the bench beneath them, and the absurdity of the people nearby, it was still probably one of the most beautiful scenes that Michael has ever seen. 

“You eating that?” Calum says, half unintelligible with his mouth full of half chewed chips. He swallows a moment later, nods towards Michael’s popcorn chicken box. “Cos I’ll have it, if not.” 

Michael lets him share it, despite popcorn chicken being his favourite, too preoccupied with staring dumbly at Calum’s mouth as he chews. 

Calum sighs a moment later, breaking Michael out of his dumb staring. He can feel his cheeks flush, and Michael hopes to whatever higher power that it could be passed off as a chill from the wind. 

“This is nice,” Calum says. He pats Michael’s knee with cold fingers, leaves his hand there, nods at the park around them and the perpetually gloomy sky. “Thanks for taking me out. I don’t think I would’ve survived over in M&M world.” 

“Probably not,” Michael says, solemnly, but there’s a smile twitching at the corners of his lips. “I’m glad you came. I’m glad you were dumb enough to nap on your suitcase. I’m glad you agreed to come with me, and for staying in touch, and for buying me KFC.” 

“Romantic,” Calum says, deadpan. He stretches off of the bench to go and dump their rubbish in the closest bin; Michael doesn’t think about how cold his thigh feels without Calum’s hand resting there. 

“We heading back?” Michael asks, accepting Calum’s outstretched hand. Calum sighs, interlaces their fingers. Michael ignores the happy little flip his heart does at the motion. 

“Yeah,” Calum says. He hesitates a second, staring at something on Michael’s face. “You’ve got a little, uh. Right there.” He motions on his own face. 

Michael sticks his tongue out to try and lick it off, and Calum steps forward, bringing his free hand up to wipe it off of his cheek. “Thanks,” Michael says. He can feel his cheeks reddening. 

“No problem,” Calum says. They stand for a moment longer, until a drop of rain splatters against the bench they were sat on and Calum takes off running with a muttered curse. 

Michael runs after for him for a while, swearing when his boot catches on the side of the pavement and he nearly trips. He slows to a jog, laughing when he feels rain drip onto his cheeks, arms, shoes. Calum turns around at the sound of his laugh, grinning when he sees Michael, arms out, tongue outstretched to catch any stray raindrops. 

“You scared of rain, or something?” Michael calls, a moment later. Calum scowls. 

“Look at my hair,” he says, insistently. “The rain will ruin it, Michael. Ruin it.”

“We can just get the tube, if you want,” Michael says. The rain’s getting heavier, and the droplets are sliding down Calum’s cheeks in a disturbingly distracting way. 

Calum’s mouth drops open. “We could have been inside this whole time?” he says, accusingly. 

“You’re the one who ran off,” Michael points out, and turns on his heel to shuffle down the stairs to the platform. 

Calum catches up with him a moment later, eyes widening just barely at the chaos on the platform in front of him. They buy a ticket for Calum at one of the contactless screens, and then Michael reaches behind him to clasp Calum’s hand. 

They get onto the tube in one piece, somehow, despite Calum nearly letting go of Michael’s hand, and stumble off of it minutes later. The glow of the hotel is bright against the darkening sky, and Calum produces a key card from nowhere. 

“They’re not here,” Calum says, stating the obvious when they stumble into the room. Michael’s not sure whether it’s Calum’s own, or Luke and Ashton’s, because there’s only one bed. (No one’s confirmed it for him yet, but he’s almost absolutely sure that Luke and Ashton are together.) 

Calum flops face first onto a bed that might not be his, and Michael sits on the edge, shutting his eyes. 

“Time is it?” Michael asks a moment later, after listening to Calum’s phone vibrate against the sheets. “Don’t you have to be at the venue soon?” 

Calum groans into the duvet. “At like, five, I think. It’s only small.” 

“Answer your phone, then,” Michael says. “It’s like, 4:30.” 

“Liar,” Calum says, sleepily. “It’s three thirty.” 

(Michael rolls his eyes, but smiles at Calum anyway. It’s too fond. Calum can’t even see him.)

Calum picks up his phone, and Michael peers over his shoulder until Calum tilts the screen to let him see. There’s a chain of pictures from Luke, slightly blurry ones with him gripping a bag of M&M’s with his face on it, and another one with chocolate around his mouth like a six year old. 

There’s another one, from a number without a name, something with a lot of exclamation marks that makes Calum laugh to himself as he answers. 

“Oh,” Calum says, suddenly. Michael jumps, not realising they had been in silence for so long, realises that he’s essentially been staring at Calum’s side profile for at least ten minutes. 

“What,” Michael says, when it’s clear that Calum’s waiting for a response. He flicks Calum on his arm as he waits, grinning at the tiny hiss he gets out of it. 

“Tickets. We got you two, so your friend could come too, and you can come backstage with us, but I think you’ve got to go round the front at the opening act.” Calum fumbles with a bit of paper as he speaks, wiggling it out of his pocket and unfolding it before presenting it to Michael with a flourish. 

Michael stares at it for a moment before taking it. He can’t pay Calum back, not for this. He must have been staring at it funny, because when he looks up, Calum looks concerned. 

“You don’t have to come,” Calum says, standing. He sounds kind of panicked. “It’s your choice.” 

“No,” Michael says, too fast. His tongue is thick and heavy in his mouth. He’s always been too clumsy with his words. “This is amazing, Calum. Thank you.” 

“If you’re sure,” Calum tells him, but the panic has softened into something calmer. He offers a hand to Michael, who takes it, and hopes that Calum can’t feel how clammy his hands are.

“You know where the venue is?” Calum checks, and it’s not funny, but it makes Michael laugh, regardless. 

“I live here,” Michael says. “I’ll find it.” 

Calum yanks him into a hug before his hand can touch the handle. “Thanks for today,” he mumbles into Michael’s neck. “I don’t think M&M’s are really my thing.” 

It startles another laugh out of Michael, and he turns to leave with a smile. 

(He doesn’t think about the warmth of Calum’s body, pressed against his own, or how his head fit into the juncture of Michael’s neck and shoulder.) 

—-

The concert is fucking amazing, of course. 

Michael had gotten home, only to find Rian in his apartment, eating tomatoes that Michael didn’t even know he had, which is probably the only time that Michael hadn’t regretted giving him the spare key. Within half an hour, including several slightly manic explanations and a ten minute lecture on why Michael should answer his texts, they were on their way to the venue. 

The opening act was another band, and Michael had spent their set jumping around, but also trying to dispel all of the nervous energy from his body. 

“Five minutes,” he tells Rian. Rian hands him a bottle of water in response, which he takes willingly. 

There’s a massive cheer, but Michael can’t even see anything. The stage is empty. Is this a thing that happens at concerts? 

That’s when he notices Calum’s head sticking out of the wings, the edge of his bass showing too, and his eyes meet Michael’s somehow. Michael gives him a slightly lame thumbs up, and then Calum’s there. In front of him, all over again. 

(Calum’s eyes don’t leave Michael’s until the third song, where he looks down at his bass and takes the microphone from its stand.) 

“Hello,” he says, and the crowd goes wild. (Michael’s amongst them. What can he say? He’s still a fan, after all.) 

Calum grins, something wide and open and honest, and Michael’s pretty sure that this is the feeling that poets write sonnets about. Calum’s in his element, up on stage with his best friends, and the sense of belonging threatens to overwhelm Michael. 

“This is a song about sex,” he tells the audience, and Michael’s pretty sure he’s never heard a louder scream in his life. Rian next to him is laughing, the smile on his face rivalling Ashton’s own, and if Michael thought about it, this is probably the happiest he’s felt in years. 

“London,” Calum starts, once the screams have died down slightly. Someone wolf whistles, and Luke laughs so hard he braces his hands on his knees. 

Calum points at Luke accusingly. “You can’t laugh,” he says, and then addresses the audience. “You guys didn’t see him fall into Ashton’s drums earlier, during soundcheck.” 

“I was checking on him!” Luke protests, yelling into his mic to be heard above the screams. “He might look tough, but he nearly fell off stage earlier.” 

“Hey,” Ashton says, stilling his sticks on his drums. “You promised you wouldn’t bring that up.” 

“Sorry, Ash,” Luke says, though he sounds almost the opposite of it. 

“No, you’re not,” Ashton says, leaning backwards.” 

“No,” Luke agrees, and looks over to where Calum is spluttering on his water. 

“Come on then,” Ashton says, tapping his sticks together absently. “We have a show to play, Luke.” 

There’s a short silence whilst Calum caps his water and chucks it on the floor.

“Go on, Cal,” Luke says, pausing his series of making stupid faces at Ashton. (Michael saw it before he turned around; both eyebrows raised, tongue out.) 

“London,” Calum says again, slowly. He points a finger at someone in the audience, giving them a fake stern glare. “Don’t you fucking dare.” 

Ashton hits the snare a couple of times, twirling the other stick above his head lazily, and shrugs when Calum turns to him. 

Calum sighs, all dramatic and faux-irritated, and begins again. “London, lets fucking dance,” he says, and the crowd erupt into cheers. 

—

Michael doesn’t manage to catch Calum after the show. 

It makes sense; of course it does. They’re famous. If Michael stopped to say anything, there’s no telling how many swarms of people could surround them. 

He considers going to their hotel, but ultimately decides against it. There’s no reason why the hotel staff wouldn’t just throw him back out again. 

In the end, however, it doesn’t really matter. 

He parted ways with Rian a few streets back, sticking close to the edge of the pavement with his hands in his pockets, when his phone rings. 

“Michael?” the other person asks, breathlessly. It’s Calum. 

“Calum?” Michael checks, because he’s too lazy to take the phone away from his ear to check. 

“Yeah, it’s me,” Calum says, voice tinny and slightly distorted through the phone. “Listen, are you around? Close to the hotel?” 

And well. He’s basically right outside, give or take a street or so back. “Yeah, what’s up?” he says. His heart is pounding. 

There’s a scuffle from Calum’s end, all broken static and muffled footsteps, and then his voice comes through again. “I’m on my way down. Can you meet me in the lobby?” 

“I mean, sure,” Michael says. He’s confused, to say the least, and he wonders for a brief moment whether he should’ve tried to catch them after the show. 

“Great. I’ll be down in a moment, see you,” Calum says, and then the line goes dead. 

“Alright,” Michael mutters to himself, speeding up to catch Calum in the lobby. He’s not far, and the glowing sign is visible in a few seconds. 

Calum’s already waiting for him when he gets there, slumped in an armchair in jeans and a hoodie so big it swamps his entire frame, with the hood up and his feet tucked beneath him. He springs up as soon as he sees Michael, mouth stretching into a smile. 

“I missed you,” Calum mutters into the back of his neck after wrapping Michael up in a hug. Michael melts into it, closing his eyes, relaxing in Calum’s arms. . 

“You saw me, like, two hours ago,” Michael mutters, but it’s weak. He missed Calum too. So badly. 

Calum ignores him, either way, and lets go of his tight grip around Michael’s chest to grasp Michael’s cold hands, pink from the wind, in his own warm ones. “Can we go outside?” he asks, as though Michael would say no to him. 

Michael nods. Calum finds a place in the corner of the tiny courtyard, next to the hotel, right between a picnic bench and an air vent. Michael could swear that his heart isn’t supposed to beat this fast. 

“Thanks for coming,” Calum says, suddenly much closer than before. His breath is warm against Michael’s cold skin. 

“Thanks for inviting me,” Michael throws back, trying to catch Calum’s eyes, but Calum just shakes his head like there’s something cripplingly important that he’s missed. 

“It means a lot to me, that you stayed the whole time,” Calum says, insistent about something that Michael can’t quite grasp. He meets Michael’s eyes this time, grip tightening on Michael’s frozen knuckles, as though he’s bracing himself for something. 

Michael closes his eyes to avoid the weight of Calum’s gaze. It’s loud, where they’re stood, yet the loudest thing to Michael is the pounding of his heart in his ears, the rest of the world silenced in a way that London never is. 

(He wouldn’t admit it, but he’s waiting for an apology. Where Calum tells him that they just won’t work, as friends or otherwise. That they’re better off apart.) 

Instead, there’s a shaky breath exhaled against his skin, and then Calum’s lips meet his own. 

It’s a little awkward at first. Michael hadn’t been expecting anything of the sort, and they stand there for a moment, lips awkwardly pressed together, barely breathing until Calum tilts his head slightly, and Michael can relax into it properly. 

Calum’s lips are soft, almost delicate, but he kisses firmly, almost desperately, as if at any moment Michael is going to pull away and run off. Michael makes a tiny noise, and then one of Calum’s hands leaves Michael’s, and cups the back of his neck to press them either closer together. 

In the end, it’s Michael who pulls apart, panting slightly. Calum’s lips are parted the tiniest bit, and the fondness in his face makes Michael’s chest feel warm. 

“Thank you,” Calum whispers again, and Michael thinks he understands. He swallows audibly, drops Michael’s hands and smiles. “I really like you.” 

“I really like you too,” Michael tells him. He feels cold without Calum’s body pressed against his own. 

Calum nods, as if Michael’s answer satisfies him. “I’ll see you around, right? Maybe tomorrow?” 

“Promise,” Michael says. His words feel heavy in his throat. 

“Good,” Calum says, and turns, half reluctantly, to walk back into the hotel, leaving Michael leaning against the brickwork by himself. His heart is still racing as he sets off home. 

—

It’s no surprise that Michael sleeps like shit. 

He spends the majority of the night tossing and turning, too hot under his duvet, replaying the memory of their kiss over and over in his mind. 

On the way to the train station, he has to dig his nails into the soft, fleshy part of his hand to stop himself from wandering into Calum’s hotel. Just to say something. Hello, maybe. Michael doesn’t think there are words available to describe the way he feels about Calum.

There’s something different about the entrance. (Michael knows what it is. There’s an expanse of empty brick, where the command to follow his dreams was once plastered onto the wall.) 

Rian takes one look at his face and pulls him into a hug. It’s nothing like Calum’s hugs, but it’s enough. Even Pete ends up offering him a smile. 

He offers to do Security, because that way he won’t have to think about the weight of Calum’s lips, or his racing heart. Instead, he can throw himself into routine checks of luggage, repeating the same, monotonous phrases over and over until it burns out the whispered memory of Calum’s whispered thanks. 

He eats lunch with Niall, because Niall doesn’t ask questions. Calum doesn’t text him. 

(There’s a tiny part of Michael that’s whispering about how Calum didn’t mean it. That he regrets spending so much time with Michael, that he regrets kissing him, that he regrets meeting him in the first place.) 

“I can't eat this,” Michael says, dropping it onto his plate. Niall pats his back and picks up his toastie, eating it without question. 

Everyone seems to think that something has gone totally wrong between him and Calum. Michael’s not sure if it has, or if he’s being stupidly optimistic. He tells this to Niall, who suggests he sleeps on it through a bite of cheese and ham. 

Michael kind of wants to scream to everyone that they kissed. Michael kissed Calum Hood. Or, rather, Calum Hood kissed him.

He spends his afternoon retrieving suitcases for impatient passengers, who tap their feet and stare down their nose at him until he feels about as small, and as significant, as an ant. There’s nothing he wants to do more than curl up on Calum’s hotel bed, Calum’s curls tickling his chin, and sleep without the insecurity and guilt and regret. 

“Excuse me?” a woman asks, clicking her fingers in his face. He startles awake, blinking away daydreams, and zeroes in on platinum blond hair and reading glasses. 

“Sorry, ma’am,” he replies, mainly on instinct. “How may I help you?” 

She follows him around as he searches for her luggage, tapping her feet and staring impatiently at her watch. She threatens to call his manager. Michael has no doubt she will follow through with it. He feels fourteen and small again, huddled in his bedroom with his dreams torn away from him. 

(Calum doesn’t text him when Niall drives him home either. Nor when he eats the leftover pizza that Rian left in his fridge, or when he’s lying in bed with tears stinging at his eyes.) 

—

Rian grabs him by the arm on his way in the next day. 

“You,” Rian tells him. “Are coming with me.”

It’s barely six in the morning, and Michael wants nothing more than to sink into the nearest wall and go back to sleep. He wishes Calum were here. 

“Where’re we going,” he mumbles. Rian just tugs on his arm in answer. 

Nothing good, then. 

“Wait here,” Rian tells him, pushing him down onto the seat. 

Michael’s considering just, laying down and trying to nap before Rian gets back, when three curly heads walk towards him. 

(Really, Michael doesn’t know why they all had to have curly hair. An attack on him, maybe.)

“Oh no,” he says. Someone turns to stare at him. 

“Michael,” someone says brightly from behind him. 

“Uhm,” Michael says, intelligently. Rian steps around to where Michael can see him, wearing the most smug expression that Michael has ever seen on another human being in his entire life. 

“Call this an intervention,” Rian is saying, gesturing to someone behind him, and Michael’s heart drops to somewhere around his feet. 

“Michael?” he hears, and spins, hoping that the faint tear tracks on his face have suddenly disappeared. 

“Hey,” Michael says to Calum. Rian pats his shoulder. 

“I’ll leave you guys,” he says, but Michael knows that he really means that if Michael needs anything, he’ll be there. Michael nods, unable to voice his gratitude. 

“Michael,” Calum repeats. Michael doesn’t meet his eyes, cant meet his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” Calum continues. Michael dares a quick glance at his face, and it breaks his heart, makes his chest heavy and his stomach churn with guilt. Calum looks as though he’s about to cry. 

“I’m sorry,” Michael blurts out. Calum looks distraught at the idea of him apologising, and reaches forwards to grip Michael’s arms. 

They’re both silent for a moment. Michael doesn’t know what to say; it’s almost as though the words are tripping over themselves to be spoken, but he can’t open his mouth. Calum looks as though he’s choking back tears. The thought makes his eyes sting. 

“There’s so much I want to say to you,” Michael says, quietly, as though it’ll save him from the humiliation of admitting them, admitting the admiration and affection burning through his veins, so akin to love that it’s overwhelming. 

“Why don’t you?” Calum asks, slightly hoarsely, hands warm and heavy on his forearms. 

“I don’t know how,” Michael tells him, closing his eyes. Calum rests his forehead against Michael’s. 

“It’s okay,” Calum says. His breath is warm against Michael’s overheated skin. He’s all too aware that they’re in public, that at any moment Michael is going to be whisked away to start working. “I don’t know either.” 

“I do want to, though,” Michael says, hurriedly. He licks his lips, sucks the bottom one between his teeth. “Kiss you, that is.” 

Calum’s silent for a moment. Michael opens his eyes to see a tiny smile on his face. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Michael tells him. Calum nods. 

“Good,” he says. “Because I always want to kiss you.” 

CHAP 2 

Michael doesn’t pine, he swears he doesn’t. 

He does, however, eat his body weight in Rian’s chocolate cakes, accept a ride home nearly every night that week just to end up crying into Rian or Niall’s shoulder, and compose half a dozen messages to Calum. He doesn’t count the littered pages of lyrics across his bedroom. They’re not about Calum, he tells himself. 

He’s not sure why. He’s pretty sure he should be over the moon. 

November turns to December, and Michael begins to regret disagreeing when his mum offered to knit him a scarf. the cold seeping through his clothes and chilling his bones. 

The first message from Calum comes a week and two days after he went back to LA, and Michael stares at it for a while before reading it properly. 

Calum: Miss you. 

It’s only short, and Michael kind of understands why. After all, he hadn’t made an effort to contact Calum either. 

Michael hesitates for a moment before texting back. He can imagine Calum sitting somewhere, phone in hand, biting his nails down as he waits for Michael to reply. 

Michael: Can I call you? 

Calum picks up immediately, which. Michael wasn’t sure if he was expecting Calum to decline his call, or tell Michael that he was busy, but that’s definitely relief he’s feeling. 

“Hey,” Calum says. There’s a rustling sound which makes it sound as though Calum’s still in bed despite it being nearly two in the afternoon. 

“Are you in bed?” Michael blurts out, unthinking, and immediately curses himself for asking. Calum just laughs, softly. 

“Yeah,” he says, quietly. “Are you?” 

“Kind of?” Michael tries. It comes out like a question. “I’m on the sofa.” 

Calum sighs, and it makes Michael worried. “Are you okay?” he tries. 

“Homesick,” he tells Michael. Calum’s voice is slightly staticky from the phone line, and Michael can hear his slightly irregular breathing if he closes his eyes and concentrates. 

“Oh,” Michael says. He misses home too, actual home, with his dad’s cooking and his mum’s ever present fluttering around him, checking he’s okay. He misses his neighbour’s biscuits and his room and being warm all the time. He misses the constant noise, whether it’s the radio, or his parents chattering mindlessly, or the low hum of the radiators in winter. He misses being greeted by the beach on Christmas, and leaving the constant chill of England behind. “Me too.” 

Calum hums, as if he knows what Michael was thinking about. “You said you were from Sydney,” he says. It’s not a question. 

“Yeah.” 

“Whereabouts?” Calum asks. There’s something broken in his voice, something longing and hurt, and Michael swallows, hoping that Calum can’t hear. 

“Near Riverstone,” he tells Calum. Calum sucks in a sharp breath. 

“Really?” he asks, as if Michael’s going to change his mind, and announce that he’s from fucking Grimsby or something. 

“Quaker’s Hill,” Michael says. 

There’s another silence until Calum breaks it. “I’m from Riverstone,” he says. It seems as though he wants to continue, so Michael stays quiet. “Sometimes, I wake up, and I think I’m back there.”

“Home?” 

“Yeah,” Calum says. “I miss my sister. And my mum and dad. And I miss going to school, and I miss playing footy in the park, and I miss fucking around with Luke in Andrew’s garage.” 

Michael feels vaguely as though someone has dumped a bucket of ice over his head. He remembers Andrew’s Garage, remembers the flickering lights, gleaming with phosphorescence that never properly worked, remembers the rotting floorboards in the furthest corner, remembers the instruments stacked high enough to brush the ceiling. He never saw another soul in that shop, not for the five years he visited. 

“Andrew’s Garage?” Michael asks, wistfully. “Man, that was my favourite place.” 

“What?” Calum says. He sounds shocked, as though Andrew’s Garage wasn’t right outside his school and a perfect place to procrastinate going home. “I never saw another person in there.” 

“Me neither,” Michael says. There’s something gnawing at the back of his mind, something that would make it all make sense, but he can’t put his finger on what it is. 

A text from his mum comes through, and he switches Calum’s call to speaker as he reads. It’s something about what time he should get back, and about how his dad won’t be able to pick him up from the airport because the motorway’s shut, so he’ll have to get the train, or drive the back roads. 

It reminds him of when his mum used to drive to pick him up from Andrew’s Garage after she finished work, and he’s on the verge of calling her to ask her if she’d ever seen Calum. 

In the end, he decides against it, because he’s pretty sure she might feel worried for his sanity if he called her asking about world famous bassist Calum Hood. 

“Okay then,” Calum says. Michael hadn’t realised that he’s been staring at his phone for a little over five minutes, and startles upright. “If we’re both heading home for Christmas, do you wanna like. Meet when we get there?” 

“Like at the airport?” Michael asks. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, hesitating. It’s still jarring to hear Calum nervous talking to him. “It’s supposed to be thirty nine degrees, and well. You kind of spoke out loud when you found out you had to take the train home? And the train will be too hot to travel on. And I’m heading that way anyway. So. I could, like, drive you, if you wanted.” 

“Yeah,” Michael says. “What the fuck?” He feels slightly giddy, heart beating and a flush covering his cheeks. 

“Is that a no?” Calum asks, sounding slightly worried. Or, at least, Michael thinks he sounds worried over the static. 

“It’s a yes,” Michael says, as firmly as he can. His heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. 

“Can’t wait,” Calum says, and Michael can hear the grin in his voice. “See you next week? That’s when your holidays start, right?” 

“How’d you know that?” Michael asks, half suspicious. 

“Rian,” Calum tells him. “I’ll see you next week?” 

Michael’s not on the verge of tears, he swears. “See you, Calum.” 

—- 

“I can't believe you,” Rian tells him. 

Michael shakes his head, and immediately bangs it against a low hanging metal shelf. “Ow, fuck,” he says, rubbing his head and glaring at the shelf. “I know, though. I can't believe it either.” 

They’re in the same tiny back room that Michael stored Calum’s suitcase in, after Michael pulled Rian into it as soon as he arrived at work. 

“Just,” Rian begins, looking concerned. “Stay safe, yeah?” 

Michael nods. “I will do.” 

“And if you do end up doing this, you know, the whole dating thing, don’t leave us behind,” Rian continues, not keeping eye contact with Michael. Michael shakes his head. 

“I couldn’t,” he says, resting against the wall. There’s a lump in his throat, and he swallows, desperately wishing for water. 

“I’ll see you afterwards,” Rian says. He looks as though there’s something else he wants to say, but the look disappears as soon as it comes. 

Michael wants to question him further, but he knows he should’ve been at his flight gate five minutes ago, so he pushes himself off of the wall and opens his arms for a hug. 

“Miss you,” Michael mutters into the side of Rian’s neck, and Rian’s arms tighten around him. 

“We’re talking about this when you’re back,” Rian reminds him, pulling back slightly to raise an eyebrow at him. “Now go catch your plane.” 

—

True to his word, Calum meets Michael directly outside of the airport. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been waiting, since Calum bounds over to him with no loss of enthusiasm that would come with waiting around in the searing Sydney sun. 

“Cmon,” Calum tells him, dragging his hood back over his face whilst grasping Michael’s hand and dragging him over to the car park. Michael’s not sure how Calum has a car in Sydney, but he’s not complaining. Not when the alternative is him boiling alive on Sydney’s trains. 

Calum’s car is cool, thankfully, as though Calum had turned the AC on whilst waiting for Michael. (He’s not sure how Calum had been able to stand wearing a dark hoodie otherwise.) 

“So,” Calum starts, once he’s checked that all of their bags are tucked away safely in the boot and stripped himself of his hoodie, “Where’re we heading?” 

Michael swallows his drink of water, cools his skin on the cold bottle and fumbles for his phone to show Calum the address. 

“I’ve not been home in so long,” Calum says as they queue for the exit. Michael sighs. 

“I’m so excited to see my mum,” he says, pointing towards the fucking iPod that Calum has in the cup holder. “An iPod, really? You’re like my dad.” 

Calum huffs a laugh, swinging onto the motorway. “It’s got too many songs to transfer. Put it on, I like everything on there.” 

Michael reads out a few of the song titles, watching Calum’s expression closely until his lips stretch into a smile and he takes a hand off of the steering wheel to point at Michael. “That one,” he says, rapping his knuckles against the steering wheel. 

His hoodie has fallen off of his shoulders, exposing the muscles of his arms beneath his shirt. He looks unbearably happy, and Michael has to look away, selecting the artist to make sure he doesn’t kiss Calum or something. 

Calum sings loudly along to the artist, who Michael’s never heard of but is growing to love, and with the windows rolled down, and it gives Michael a content feeling in his stomach. 

The journey to Quakers Hill doesn’t take long, and a Calum dawdles once they’re parked outside Mochael’s childhood home. Michael’s got his seatbelt off and one hand awkwardly in between their seats. 

“Come in with me?” Michael gets out after a moment. His throat feels dry, like it’s been rubbed raw with sandpaper. 

“Yeah,” Calum says, too quickly, stilling the engine and pulling his hood back over his face. He grabs Michael’s bag, despite Michael’s protests, and gestures for Michael to lead the way. 

Michael’s mum is already hovering in the kitchen when they arrive, lingering behind the door. She pulls Michael into a hug immediately, and it’s warm, comforting and motherly and everything he’s missed over the past few months. 

Calum moves awkwardly past them, sliding Michael’s suitcase into the kitchen, and Michael’s mum releases her death grip on Michael’s waist to stare at Calum. Calum fidgets under her gaze. 

“Calum Hood,” she mutters, mainly to herself. “Well I never.” 

“Hello, ma’am,” Calum says, tentatively reaching out a hand for Karen to shake. She waves him away, opening her arms and pulling him into a hug. 

“Since when did you follow 5 Seconds of Summer?” Michael asks, bewildered. His mum is staring at Calum like he’s hung the moon. Calum is frowning, as though there’s something he doesn’t understand. Something he’s trying to figure out. 

His mum looks confused. “I don’t know a 5 Seconds of Summer,” she declares. She waves Calum through to the living room, where he looks around as though he’s seen it before. 

“I do know,” his mum continues, once Calum’s settled back into the sofa with a mug of tea in one hand. “A Calum Hood. Although, you were about twenty years younger.” 

“I’m confused,” Michael says, when the room goes quiet. “When did we know Calum Hood twenty years ago?” 

His mum digs into the magazine rack next to her, rifling through empty picture frames and crossword books before resurfacing with their photo album, when Michael was only a toddler. 

“You two used to be best friends,” she explains, settling the album, dusty with age, between them, and flips to a page. Michael’s heart jumps in his chest. On the page in front of them, is a familiar sight. Michael’s seen his baby photos more times than he can count. Next to him however, is tan skin and curls and a big, open smile that mirrors the one beside him, give or take a few teeth. 

Calum says, “Oh,” and sets his mug down on the coffee table. 

“You were both distraught when Calum moved,” she continues, addressing Michael. “I had to explain to you that Calum had moved forever. You used to stand at the edge of the driveway and wait for him.” 

And, Michael remembers that. Remembers kneeling on the driveway, watching the road every day for months. His mum nods at his expression, and Calum squeezes his knee comfortingly. 

“I don’t know how you two found your way back to each other,” Karen says, more briskly, moving to take the album from Michael’s thigh. “But I’m happy you did.” 

“I knew you felt familiar,” Calum mumbles to Michael, after he’s taken the last long sip of his tea. “I just couldn’t tell why.” 

Michael nods, but doesn’t say anything. He feels shocked, and Calum seems to understand as he rises from Michael’s childhood sofa. 

“Come around soon,” Michael’s mum tells Calum as he leaves. Michael still doesn’t move, doesn’t until his mum comes back and sits next to him, pulls him into another hug. 

—-

Calum texts Michael incessantly once he’s home. 

They talk a lot, about nothing in particular, though they don’t facetime. Calum tells him about his mum, and his sister, and the things he says tickle at a memory tucked away in Michael’s brain. 

Michael spends his days with his parents, eating actual home cooked food for once and sleeping more in a few weeks than he has in the past year. 

And Michael finds inspiration everywhere; in the shower, thinking about Calum’s lips on his; eating his body weight in Quality Streets, thinking about Calum’s eyes. (Or maybe it’s just in Calum.) 

Although it’s Christmas Eve, and Michael’s missing Calum. 

His parents have gone to the beach, and Michael’s laying in the backyard, eyes shut, when there’s a knock on the door. And it’s Calum. 

He’s grinning, holding up a covered jug of lemonade and a tub of ice cream. Michael stares. 

“Wanna walk?” Calum asks, once it’s clear that Michael doesn’t know what to say. “Merry Christmas, by the way.” 

“Merry Christmas,” Michael says, letting himself grin at Calum. “We can walk.” 

They walk to Quaker’s Park, where a group of teenagers are attempting skate tricks in a corner, and settle between two trees. Michael props himself against a tree whilst Calum pours them lemonade, real lemonade, the sort that Calum would have to put in effort to make, and it gives him butterflies. 

“This is nice,” Michael mumbles, eyes drooping shut. 

“I wanted to talk to you,” Calum says, jumping straight to the point. Michael nods without opening his eyes. He’s comfortable, stretched out on the ground, warm with Calum’s presence next to him, the trees above waving gently in the breeze. 

“Go on,” he prompts, when Calum just sits there, unspeaking. The longer Calum waits, the more his bones shake and the more his stomach churns. 

“We’re recording in the UK,” Calum blurts. Michael doesn’t process it at first. 

“What?” 

Calum’s face falls slightly, and Michael shakes his head. “Repeat yourself,” he says, eyebrows furrowed. 

“We’re recording in the UK,” Calum repeats, and licks his lips. (Michael doesn’t watch.) “London, more specifically.” 

“Calum,” Michael says, hoarse and slightly breathless. It’s the only thing he seems to be able to say; all of the other words get stuck on a lump on his throat, and all he can do is crawl to his knees to hug Calum, who grunts and falls backwards into the grass. 

They’re so close, and Michael can see the smile stretching across Calum’s face, knows there’s one mirroring it on his own face. 

“You’re happy then?” Calum asks, grinning at the hopeful smile on Michael’s face. He waves the carton of slowly melting ice cream at Michael, and they dig into it with teaspoons. Michael nods, enthusiastically, mouth full of ice cream. 

“Look,” he says, later, when they’re lying together. Calum’s head is pillowed on Michael’s chest, and his skin is warm, even as the sun sets. He points with his free hand, the one that isn’t stroking through Calum’s hair, up to the darkening sky, striped with coral and orange and pink. 

“Pretty,” Calum says, a moment later. His eyes flutter open a moment later, and he looks up at Michael, upside down. His eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Like you.” 

It’s the cheesiest thing Michael’s ever heard, but it makes him blush despite it. 

“Stay with me,” Michael says, ignoring how desperate his voice sounds. Calum stretches, turns his head to look Michael properly in the eye. His eyes are half-lidded from comfort, but he looks serious. 

“Are you sure?” he asks, and then winces at the way his words sound. “I mean, it’ll be difficult. Especially when we tour.” 

Michael shakes his head, tangles his fingers with Calum’s. “I’m sure,” he says. “We can figure it out, as we go. But I really like you.” 

“I really like you too,” Calum tells him, and presses a kiss to his forehead. It’s something that Michael’s grandma used to do, and the thought makes him laugh. 

“Kiss me properly,” he demands instead, sitting up further and dragging Calum up with him. 

—-

“What’s this?” Calum asks, a week later. 

He’s round to help Michael pack again, to move back to London, but so far he’s spent longer picking up random items in Michael’s bedroom than actually helping. 

Michael doesn’t reply, tossing clothes into his case instead. “What is it?” he asks, zipping up his case and turning to look at Calum, who’s scanning a price of lined paper, ragged at one edge where it’s been pulled out of Michael’s notebook. 

“Don’t read that,” he says, too fast, too late. His heart is beating out of his chest, and it’s making his palms sweat. He snatches the paper from Calum’s hands with shaking fingers, holds it close to his chest. 

Calum stands, slowly. “Michael,” he starts, and then lets his voice face away. 

Michael risks a glance, but looks away straight after. Calum’s face is pale, and his lips are pressed tightly together. “Michael,” Calum tries again, placating and gentle and soft. “This is really good.” 

When Michael finally risks another glance at Calum, he’s got a proud smile on his face, and something so warm in his eyes it’s all Michael can do to not engulf him in a hug. He sniffles, notices for the first time how badly his hands are shaking. “Really?”

Calum nods, far too enthusiastically for someone who was lying. Michael trusts Calum, after all. 

Michael swallows, quietly. “Thanks,” he says. He folds the paper, smoothes out the edges, and sets it back on the desk. 

“Can I show this to Luke and Ash?” Calum asks, tentatively. At Michael’s sudden jerk, he backtracks. “We’re recording in the UK, and-“

“No,” Michael says, desperately. “It’s not finished. It’s not even good.” 

“That’s not true,” Calum starts, hotly, but stops himself again at Michael’s sudden head shake. 

“Not yet, Calum,” Michael says, and Calum nods, resigned, and doesn’t push it. 

—

They fly back the following day, and Calum doesn’t push it. 

Rian accosts him as soon as he gets home, already lounging on Michael’s sofa and watching Come Dine With Me reruns. 

“We’re renting a place, together,” he says, over the top of Dave Lamb narrating some poor lad’s burnt chicken. “Down past the cinema.” 

“Really,” Michael says, clambering over Rian to squash himself between the back of the sofa and Rian’s warm body, watching in interest as someone chokes on their rocket and feta salad starter. “Who?”

“Me, you and Niall,” Rian tells him, elbowing him in the ribs as he shifts. “It’s closer to your Calum’s recording, too.” 

“He’s not my anything,” Michael protests, and then realises that it isn’t completely true. “Well-“

“You got together, didn’t you?” Rian says, grinning like a madman. 

“Yeah,” Michael says. The thought that Calum Hood is his, makes his heart jump in his chest. 

“About time,” Rian mutters, drowned out by the sound of the door opening, and Niall cursing. His phone buzzes against Rian’s back and he squirms, and Michael smiles at Calum’s message. 

Calum: Miss you already. 

Calum: I still really like you though. 

—-

(“How long do you reckon it’ll take until they get in?” Calum whispers to Michael. Michael just groans in response.

Calum’s body is warm, and the sheets are soft and the sun is muted through the blinds, and it’s almost enough to pretend as though he can’t hear Rian and Niall knocking violently on the door. 

“I wanna stay like this forever,” Michael admits into Calum’s chest, resting his head over Calum’s heart. It beats unevenly beneath his ear, and Calum flicks Michael’s neck before he can make a snarky remark. 

“Love you,” Calum tells him, leaning forward to rest his chin against Michael’s bare skin. Michael hums. 

“Love you too.”)


End file.
